Friends and Enemies
by LeahMaeLaugh
Summary: Sherlock and John find themselves trying to solve the mystery killing of an English girl in the beautiful surroundings of The Costa Del Sol, Spain. The boys come across a complicated family background, personal issues and the underlining chemistry that is surfacing between them. Can Sherlock crack the case before time runs out and will John survive all that is thrown at him.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

The Costa del Sol. The lower coast line of a country full of passion, food and colours. The buildings dotted high on the mountain pass, scatter among twisted lanes and narrow roads, hiding the work of men behind layers of colourful paints. All complimenting the lush green of the trees and the strong vibrant blue of the sea which can be constantly in view. The majority of its settlers speaking with two tongues, one of their own lands and the other of an island a plane journey away. The raging waters of the coast line crashed in with gallops of elegant white horses. The brisk wind stealing the heat of the day, adding a bearable element to the Spanish climate for two out of place souls.

John Watson, stood, straight backed, while he listened to the Spanish police officer talk at speed to Sherlock Holmes, who was listening with a tilted ear, as if in a small attempt to soften the man's harsh accent. John was stifling. He contemplated wiping his brow before the droplets of salty liquid ran down, dangerously close to his eye, however thought against it as he did not want to bring any attention to his suffering. The heat in Afghanistan had never bothered him; he never even noticed it, unless he got sun burnt. He was always distracted.  
Now however there was very little to distract him. Even though the Coastline was stunningly breathe taking, the smell of sweet nuts and clean water rising from the fountain they were stood near, nothing was enough to break his mind away from the sweltering heat. John tried to place himself closer to the fountain in hope that some of the cooling spray created by the vertical blast of water, might grace his skin however when the police officer and the man in black stopped a few meters before John's desired destination, he felt obliged to stop with them. His eyes wondered from the dancing water, down to his inappropriate clothing. Still dressed in his shirt, jacket, jeans and shoes he regretted every dressing decision he had made that morning. In England, it was 2 degrees and raining. John thought he would be sensible and wear a t-shirt under his shirt and thicker socks whereas his friend went for his usual formal yet expected look. If he had known they were flying to Spain his choices would have been a lot more comfortable and appropriate for a 29 degree climate, but Sherlock being Sherlock didn't give him the slightest hint and allowed him to pack and change with garments suitable for temperatures far lower.  
He took his gaze from the ground in an effort to look more focused. Turning his pupils on his dark haired companion, he saw the small rises and falls of his head, as Sherlock nodded lightly in acknowledgement to the foreign tongued man. He looked surprisingly cool, still sporting his heavy weight coat and scarf, whereas John was sure he had turned a bright shade of pink.

"Gracias, señor"

John hadn't been aware that Sherlock was bilingual and was nonetheless impressed when he had ordered them lunch on the first day and even asked the waitress a few questions about the kind of customers they attract. John sat slightly gob smacked and Sherlock grinned slightly, as he found pleasure in the expression on John's face, just like every other time John wasn't prepared for his intellect, which was often.

"So...?"

"So, what?"

"What did he say?"

"Weren't you listening John?"

John saw Sherlock smile behind his teeth as he turned the corner of the street past the orange tree square, filled to the brim with tables and buzzing with talk and rushing waiters; swiftly followed by an unamused John.

"Haha, very funny. I'm not all of a sudden going to understand the Spanish language."

"It's not that hard, even a man with your intelligence could pick it up with, pffff a month or so."

"Haha very funny. Now are you going to tell me what that man was talking to you about?"

"Nothing that we don't know already"

"Then why did you let him go on for so long?"

"Just getting confirmation"

With that Sherlock darted his eyes to the top window of a terracotta painted building, the white curtains that billowed out from the grey carvings of the door frame caught John's eye. Only at the call of his name did John realise that Sherlock was already at the stairs of the building and making his ascent. Sherlock's legs made light work of the 4 flights of stairs; each stair well had half a wall which had the rusty hooks of draping washing lines that travelled the distance to the opposite yellow building. As John approached the building at a fast jog he saw the dragging of Sherlock's coat as he span round the corner to climb the third set of stairs. The blonde haired doctor took in a deep breath, he knew stairs and running weren't a good mixture with how dehydrated he was, the little water he had left in his system needed to stay there if he wasn't going to pass out from the heat. But he knew, better than anyone else, that to keep up with Sherlock Holmes, you needed to do the foot work as well as the constant mental battling. John heaved himself up to the third floor steps before leaning on the half wall and filling his sore lungs with the humid air before returning to the climb and his train of thought that had occurred to him before Sherlock indicated the building and slipped off but was stopped by the sounds of Sherlock shouting something.

"Usted está siendo lento John, mantenerse al día!"

John heard Sherlock's voice echo down the stair well and he could feel himself growing in frustration and let out his reply a little louder than even he was expecting.

"Don't you dare Sherlock, I'm losing my patience!"

"John, if I must translate. You are being slow John, keep up!"

"God help me, I am being punished."

Sherlock looked around his surroundings, analysing every item, its placement, origin and sentimental value to the owner. The lamp by the door, grey switch and key bowl resting on a wicker stool, the occupant worked late nights, a bad paying job considering she was using a stool as a table. Oh yes and the tenant was a she, items all had a feminine essence around them, apart from the four hanging pictures around the room, all hand painted and signed by a local artist, Sherlock deduced from the name and the images of the paintings. He stepped lightly across the brown the tiled floor, treading on the colourful woven mats into a room filled with a brown leather sofa, covered in blankets, a small television resting on yet another stool, a small dark wood coffee table, piled with Spanish literature, remotes and three stained mugs. She had no time to keep up appearances in her home, a caffeine addict who sleeps on the sofa. The apartment was simple, simple and dull. Nothing of any interest laid on the small work surfaces of the kitchenette, which was situated in the space behind the sofa and the only other room left in the house was the bathroom. Sherlock had already racked through every cupboard of the kitchen and was checking the occupants tooth brush as he heard John's footsteps stop at the door. Sherlock felt he could not miss this opportunity to rile up his loyal companion. He twisted round from the orange basin to the door way and leaned his back against the frame.

John had balanced himself precariously; his knees were bending slightly, his right hand pressing into the corresponding knee holding up his heavy upper half, whilst the other hand gripped the door frame of the front. His head was dropped and he could feel all the blood in his body rushing to his brain in an attempt to cool it down, giving him a thick and weighty headache. He could feel Sherlock's humoured presence, less than two meters away and took three long and slow breaths before lifting his pink face towards the pale smirking man.

"Do not, say a word Sherlock. Or I, will kill you"

"I was not going to say anything John but now you mention it, you look like you could use a bit of a sit down"

Sherlock's mouth grew an inch wider across his face as he turned his back on John to finish his deductions in the bathroom. John felt the overwhelming urge to punch the man in the face, he would have given him some form of physical abuse but he knew the moment he would lift his arm, gravity would send it falling to the ground and him along with it. He made his way over to the sofa, taking in the colours and objects that surrounded his and fell heavily onto the sofa, causing it to creak loudly.

"I'm never going to forgive you for this Sherlock"

"And just like all the other things you have never forgiven me for John, I accept them and live on."

"Can you cut the smart ass act for two minutes and tell me why you didn't inform me that we were taking a 2 and half hour flight to bloody Spain?"

"I didn't have time"

"Time? What, Sherlock! You had plenty of opportunities to say three little words!"

"What?"

Sherlock snapped his head round the door frame, he knew what John was going to say but enjoyed the darker shade of pink the man had now turned, he wondered how red John could go but thought her looked bright enough already.

"No! God no, not those three little words Sherlock! Just something like PACK FOR SPAIN would have made this trip a whole lot easier."

"John, if you think I would be affected by you suggesting that I might tell you, that I love you, then you really don't know me at all. Besides, I wasn't really sure of our destination until I got to the airport"

"I know you plenty and I know that's what you were suggesting that was what I was implying! And can you please explain yourself about the airport, I'm not in the mood for the back and forth quiz of 'Let's see if John can guess it' so please just continue"

"Hmm. At the airport, I needed to see the timetables, the layout on the board, the positioning; I needed to see what she would have seen when she got on the plane to Spain. I wasn't going to bother coming out here otherwise, it had the air of being a 3 on the scale, but now it's been bumped up to a six"

"Brilliant, glad you're so happy"

"Cheer up John, I'm buying you dinner"

Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out a purple debit card, John knew straight away that it wasn't Sherlock's and it wasn't his. Then it hit him.

"How on earth did you get that from your brother without him noticing?"

"How do I do anything John, with precise timing and very little chance of failure."

"Oh shut up, let's just find somewhere to eat."

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_Hello Fanfictioners. This is my first Sherlock/Johnlockish story, I haven't written anything like this before and this took a good two weeks for me to write and be happy with it so im sorry if the chapters aren't regular but please Review and Enjoy! - LeahMB95_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

John felt better. Oh yes much better. Looking down at his plate, empty, apart from a few drags of sauce and crumbs from his devoured meal. He had eaten Sherlock into a state of awe, exploding comments of wonderment at how such a small man of a strong build could eat so much and claim that food doesn't slow him down. John would never admit it; that the thought and consumption of food did slow him down, because the after effects of having his fill was something very comforting. A full stomach and a good drink were simple luxuries that John found comfort in; something Sherlock was fully aware of and abused regularly, when in an attempt to calm or distract him. It also gave the detective valuable silence in which to work, in which to think; to pull the individual threads of his knowledge and weave them into thousands of unique and justifiable patterns until every piece of fact and fiction were in their rightful places. Caught in this process for only a few moments, Sherlock noticed out of the corner of his glazed eye, a figure.

"John; take my hand"

"What?"

The spaced out expression across Sherlock's slender face gave John little insight or answers but with a gentle movement of Sherlock's arm; his hand hovered, waiting for the contact of John's.

"Sherlock, what-"

"John put your hand in mine right now."

John instantly obeyed, noting the tone of his friend's voice. Urgency. Sherlock leant forward, elbows pressed into the grain of the small table and pulled John towards him, into the same position and taking up John's other hand with his own. The doctor's pupils dilated and his heart began to pound, constant, hard beats against his chest. _What on earth is happening? _Sherlock's lips brushed tenderly and almost lovingly across John's corse knuckles and he began to shake.

"Now John, I want you to glance out of the window, for a second. Admire the view and return to my direct eye contact."

John did as he was told; not sure of what he was looking for, his eyes fixed on every moving object until they stopped at the figure, sat close to the fountain across the cobbled street; fixed in their direction. He exclaimed his thoughts about the beautiful night before returning to Sherlock.

"Is all this really necessary Sherlock?"

"Whoever our friend is outside is looking for two grown men, of a certain description. We have already eluded them by our newly purchased attire and now we have added to the uncertainty by creating an opposing relationship to the one they are expecting."

"I think this is going too far, I will happily have a bomb strapped to me, then pretend to be your boyfriend Sherlock."

"Really?"

John saw it in his eyes and refused to delve further into it, letting go of his hands he moved on.

"For all you know Sherlock that's just someone sitting on a bench"

"Hmm yes John, you could be right."

"Thank you"

"But you're not. They have been following us since we left Miss. Louisa Denarde's apartment"

"Why, why don't you tell me things when they happen and maybe we could have come up with a better plan then testing out your acting skills."

"Why are you so upset about this John, it's not like anyone here knows us."

"That's not the point Sherlock."

"Do you care to tell me what is the point?"

"The point is Sherlock-I, I'm going to the toilet"

Sherlock watched as his flustered companion moved quickly towards the cheap wooden doors at the back of the restaurant. He found no logical reason why John would feel the need to react in such a way but decided it gave him the perfect opportunity to slip out and start the investigation, as to not waste any more time.

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_Hello, im very sorry for the late update but with the stress of exams and the business of the holiday's coming to an end I hope this short chapter gives you heart tingly things! Thanks for reading - LeahMB95_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The shade of the night sky cooled the air and darkened the streets, the cobbles in the pavement hidden and the alley ways black as the hairs on the detectives head, shifting side to side as his long legs made short of the journey to the fountain were his hooded figure lurked. The stranger shifted, uncomfortable and threatened. Sherlock sat next to the secretive creature on the stone bench and reached into the small pockets of the hideous surf shorts he had purchased, he pulled out two cigarettes.

"Do me a favour, don't tell my husband about this."

The stalker lifted their head, enough so that the oil street lamps through light across their eyes, for Sherlock to now read everything.

"Miss. Louisa Denarde. What a surprise."

"Why were you in my flat?"

Her accent was smooth and melted through the air, it was a relief to the harsh tone the detectives ear drums had been subjected to all day. She was young, her accent focused on the rolling of her r's but not the crackles of blunter continents.

"We were concerned for your whereabouts Miss. Denarde. After the death of Miss. Rosa Kennels, who shared the apartment with you for three days, we were concerned for you"

"Are you the police?"

"No, we are more efficient and a lot less stupid. What is clear is that you were hiding from us."

"I was worried. Worried that you thought I knew something about it. And I don't senõr!"

"Even if that's the truth, Miss Denarde, the days leading up to Miss. Kennels death is just as important as the actual moment she ceased to live."

"I know nothing."

With that she pushed hard off the bench and walked briskly back in the direction of her flat. Sherlock noted her walk, gate, tone when speaking. Either she was telling the truth or she was a very good liar. Very good. She seemed vulnerable, scared and_ ergh_ sentimental. The cigarette delicately resting between his fingers being ripped from its position pulled Sherlock out of his trance.

"Sherlock, what are you doing? You know you're going cold turkey."

"It wasn't being used for smoking John. Come on!"

"Now where are we going?"

"To our hotel John, I won't put you through much more tonight."

"That's very kind of you."

"It's not out of kindness, you're more efficient when fed and well slept."

"Of course!"

John felt the tension in his shoulders ache as he relaxed into the soft give of the mattress. As he let his eyes close momentarily they were burst open again by Sherlock throwing something against the wall in frustration. _There's no peace_

BANG

"Sherlock?!"

"John go back to bed."

John got out of bed as fast as he could and throw himself into the living area of their hotel room but Sherlock was already gone. He could smell the trail of metal in the air and followed its scent to the wall. His mouth went dry still at the sight of the bullet hole in the wall, black and burnt, after all this time. He sprinted across the room to the open window but there was no sign of his friend. _God Sherlock. _Pressing his feet hard into the soft carpet as he paced, he brought his left hand to his mouth and started to bite and chew on the short white nails. _One hour and nothing, if he isn't dead already, I'm going to kill him._ John bit hard down on to his tongue with his grinding teeth and flinched as the taste of blood filled his mouth. Reaching the cream sink, he stained the bowl with spits and runs of blood coming from his throbbing tongue. Gargling twice before becoming reassured that the bleeding had stopped, his head snapped to look behind him. In the corner of his eye, the last half of a moving shadow caught its shape in his pupil. With cautious speed the doctor stepped into the living room.

There on the over sized sofa, laid Sherlock. Pink faced, panting, clasped hands hooked under his chin in thought. Hypnotised by the plastered carvings of the ceiling, swirling with his thoughts.

"Well?"

The silence filled John with a pure and deep frustration, which only those who had met Sherlock would understand.

"Sherlock. What happened, why are you filthy and why did you bloody run off?!"

"Hmm? Not now John, I'm busy"

"What?"

Silence stabbed through the space between them.

"You know what, fine. I'm going to bed."

John purposely pushed the door hard, locking it into its frame with a bang nearly as sharp as the one made by the bullet. Both where aimed at Sherlock.

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_So there's another chapter for you to devour! Please Enjoy and Review, I love to hear what you guys think! Thanks for the follows and favourites on this story and i'll see you guys soon :) - LeahMaeLaugh_


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Sherlock's concentration shook with the wooden door frame as he heard John's footsteps move away from the door and the creak of his bed. He let out his held breath and watched is chest deflate; he repeated deeply sucking in the air around him and pushing it out violently to sink his chest as far as possible into his aching body. From head to toe, each muscle screamed as he stretched. It was a tough chase.

As soon as the window shattered and the bullet had buried itself into the wall, centimetres from his head, adrenaline pumped gallons of itself through his system. His heart raced and his feet followed seconds later, directing him towards the sound of footsteps falling down the metal stair case on the opposite building. He was going to understand, pull all the facts from the shooters face. Solve the case in just less than 27 hours, a new record for abroad cases that involved him leaving the solitude of 221B. He hated the heat and the ridiculous clothes he was forced to wear because of it; he didn't mind the sweating but the undeniable increase of dehydration cause by the heaviness of his coat forced him into buying, his definition of a classless, tacky, typical English tourist; a pair of red Hawaiian surf shorts, a clashing blue Hawaiian shirt and white gladiator sandals. He felt grotesque and completely uncomfortable. John on the other hand looked at home in his orange Hawaiian shorts and white polo top; Sherlock cursed the shop for not having longer polo's to fit his slender frame. The chase was unsuccessful, nonetheless because of his impractical attire.

Rounding corners, climbing fire ladders and jumping across several rooftops, Sherlock had gained on the masked figure. They stopped and Sherlock spoke, trying to force some words or action out of the individual. But they stood suspended on the edge of the building, brought their arms high and let gravity take them. Sherlock bit his tongue, ready for the snap of bone and break of body but all he heard was a soft impact; a cushioned fall. He ran to the side and watched as the figured leapt from the garbage bin and disappeared down a side alley. Defeated, he slowly made his way back to the hotel, calculating how the chase wasn't in his favour and two factors stood out. His lack of knowledge of the Spanish town's streets and his uncomfortable, slippery footwear. Both needed to be erased and improved.

Frustration clouded the detectives mind as he followed the footsteps of his chase once again, trying to determine the facts at once but distraction sliced through him immediately, in the form of soft heavy breathing coming from John's bedroom. Making his way across the room, Sherlock loosened the top buttons of his holiday shirt and massaged his collar bone. Opening the door smoothly, as not to let it creek; Sherlock slid into the room and left the door ajar to decrease the yellow light pouring in from the living area. Leaning himself against the wall, sliding his hands into his pockets he began to deduce John, a pass time he frequented far too often for his own liking. John believed him to be a mind reader and his behaviour towards Sherlock sometimes still referred to this first impression, Sherlock held back a light chuckle. He may know himself to be a master of deduction however the inner workings of John's mind were far more complex than his deducing skills could unravel and the power of mind reading may have come in useful many more times then he himself would ever admit. Regular, boring and ignorant human beings were easy to read, like a child's nursery rhyme however reading certain people, like his brother and more to the point in time, John, could be like deciphering a forgotten version of Latin; Sherlock would be able to pick out most parts however the odd word, mistranslated could throw him into a territory of the unknown, a place he did not visit; ever.

John shifted in his sleep; unaware of the dark figure slouched against his bedroom wall. Sherlock straightened himself and moved towards the bed, eyes glued to John's clam face.

_What was it John? Why did you run? What are you hiding from me...is being touched such a big thing for you, that it must only be done with your girlfriends? It was just your hands I held for goodness sake John, I would have thought you able to bare that. I bared it. Your hands began to sweat...your eyes darted for a distraction, an escape. Why? It was a game, a false image for our friend Miss. Denarde to see and believe. If I was going to flirt with you John, I'd be much more allusive._

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_Heres a bit of a nothing chapter for you! I would like to say a big thanks to user ArtherDent2 for encouraging to carry on with this story. Please review and tell me your thoughts, much love to you all! - LeahMaeLaugh_


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